


Of Salt And Sympathy

by peripety



Category: Ghost Whisperer, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 06:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2377535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peripety/pseuds/peripety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the salt-and-burn guys meets the empathy-and-whitelight-girl</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Salt And Sympathy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon-based AU crossover between the series Supernatural and Ghost Whisperer. It is set pre-series for Supernatural - in the pilot of SPN Dean mentions to Sam he has been in New Orleans and this ficlet riffs off of that point. It assumes that hunters are enforcing laws of peaceful co-existence between supernatural creatures and unsuspecting humans, and briefly mentions Dean is dating a guy who is only half-human. 
> 
> In the Ghost Whisperer ‘verse, this takes place after the death of Melinda’s husband and assumes the series ended there. Melinda has left Grandview and moved to New Orleans to begin again.

Dean surveyed the quaint New Orleans storefront with a frown. _The Same As It Never Was_ Antiques Shop, the sign read. What the hell kind of logic was that supposed to be? And the stuff on display in the windows? He saw two women talking excitedly about some old jacket hanging there and about gifts to and from boyfriends and nearly rolled his eyes. He wanted to tell them if they wanted to make their guys happy they'd be better off going to the kinky lingerie and adult toy shop over on the next street, but he didn't feel like fending off a kick in the balls so he refrained from offering helpful advice. He was here to do his job, that was all, so he yanked open the door to the antiques shop and stepped inside. 

One of those infernally perky, tinkly bells chimed as Dean entered and the woman behind the counter looked up with a brief smile that acknowledged his presence before she went back to working with the customer standing at the cash register. To kill some time until he could talk to the woman Dean began to wander among the back tables of the store, picking up and setting down objects randomly, shaking his head over the prices people would pay for used junk.

“Hi, were you looking for anything special?” the woman asked Dean with a professionally pleasant smile, coming around from behind the counter and approaching him once the other customer jangled out the door.

“Actually I’m looking for someone. Melinda Gordon? She around?” Dean asked. His green eyes lingered with masculine appreciation on her feminine curves in the lacy vintage camisole she wore with figure-hugging jeans and high-heeled boots.

“I’m Melinda Gordon. May I help you?” the gorgeous brunette confirmed, looking at him inquiringly, though Dean knew right away she was lying her ass off.

“You? No way!” Dean snorted, his eyes once more appraising her from head to heels. “No way you’re a hunter!” She was a total babe. He usually went for blondes, but with the rack this hottie had, he could make a brunette exception. Were they real? Man, but he’d love to find that out first-hand, no pun intended. The thing was...now that he had this steady sex thing going on, did that mean he wasn’t supposed to notice great T&A any more? God forbid he’d ever admit to being in a ‘relationship’, and he wasn’t dead, either, so surely looking was allowed?

Dean thought the woman looked mystified by his comment, and not so easy going about the continued appraisal. He didn’t think he was leering, exactly, but come on, she was worth not only second but third looks, too. But the initial friendliness in her eyes had cooled by several degrees. “I don’t hunt. But I am Melinda Gordon. And you are?”

“Winchester. Dean Winchester. I’m a hunter – and the new sheriff in town,” Dean identified as if this explained everything instead of absolutely nothing at all.

“I thought New Orleans had a police force,” the woman calling herself Melinda said as if no clearer about the stranger’s identity.

“Call me the enforcer, if you like that word better,” Dean shrugged. “I keep the peace between the humans and the supernatural freaks in the city.” His look was inquiring in a _you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me way._ “Come on. If you’re really Melinda Gordon, then you know all about me. All the hunters do.”

“I have never been hunting in my life,” the woman repeated firmly. And truth to tell, Dean was having a hard time picturing it, too. A girly-girl like this one, with a gun, in the dark, shooting at shit? No way that would ever happen. And she started looking a little alarmed and even took a step away from him. “I think you’re mistaken. Maybe you should just go.”

This whole sheriff stint was still a new role for Dean and he only knew one way to approach it; in the same old way he did hunting: full on, aggressive, and cut the finesse crap. His duty here was to get to the bottom of what was going on with Melinda Gordon so he doggedly ignored the incipient panic he saw in the woman’s dark eyes. “Can’t. I gotta talk to this Melinda chick. About what happened at the hospital? I know all about the freak show on the seventh floor.”

“There was no freak show,” she said looking as if she was surprised into speaking by Dean's knowledge, and annoyed at his refusal to believe she was who she said she was. “I was at the hospital, yes,” she nodded. “There was an earth-bound spirit there and I helped her cross over. It – I know things got a little rough, but I took care of it. Look, who are you?”

“A little rough? What I heard about was the electricity going out for a city block, flying equipment, and some lung-sucking done to the living - all the things a pissed-off ghost does. And I told you. I’m the sheriff. I’m here to handle things like that. Not some – “ his gesture encompassed Melinda’s form “– some babe who wears her underwear outside instead of _under_ her shirt – well, if you were wearing a shirt, and not just – that – lacy – underwear – thing,” Dean shook his head, giving another huff of disbelieving laughter as he gave her one more head to heels appraisal, but this time his eyes assessed her as a hunter studying one of his own kind. “No way would you do a salt and burn job. I don’t believe it.”

“Salt and burn?” The words were repeated as if never heard before.

“Ye-ah,” Dean said, giving the word two syllables in a ‘duh’ tone of voice. “That’s how you get rid of a crazy-ass spirit. You dig up the corpse, douse it with salt and gasoline, and burn it. If you were this Melinda I’m looking for you’d know how it’s done.”

Melinda – or whoever the hell she was – looked totally shocked by the explanation.

“I helped the spirit at the hospital cross over into the light by getting her to remember who she was and showing her the way,” she stated. “I don’t dig up – corpses and – and – salt – My God, who would do that? Digging up corpses – are you serious? That's disgusting – and it must be illegal!”

“You’re kidding, right?’ Dean grinned rather grimly after he listened to all the crossing over and seeing the light nonsense. That was just so much bullshit. Even if he had been here to make a friend instead of lay down the law he wouldn’t have bought it, no matter how pretty the saleswoman was. “If you are this Melinda chick, you're saying you get touchy-feely with dead things? I’m supposed to believe you’re a fuckin’ – sorry – freakin’ Dr. Laura of the dead?”

“I help earth-bound spirits cross into the light, that’s all,” she said firmly, hands on her hips, looking mad enough to forget she was facing down a big, tough guy who looked like he could – and possibly would – snap her in half if she gave him the wrong answer. 

Dean had to reluctantly admire the mad he saw in Melinda’s dark eyes. He knew how intimidating he could be when he wanted to scare someone into submission, but she didn’t appear to be folding under the power of his icy-green glare. _And what, rather than who, was this woman who claimed to listen to the whispers of ghosts?_ Dean couldn’t help speculating. Was she a witch? (Damn, he hated witches!) A demi-demon? But, in the end, it didn’t matter what kind of human, semi-human, or supernatural being Melinda Gordon was, since he wasn't here as a hunter. He was the Authority, now, meant to control the situation and not to kill anyone or anything, but only to lay down the law.

She seemed reluctant to share too much about her ghost-centric activities but under Dean continued expectant stare she eventually added, “Okay, yes, it can get a little rough like it did at the hospital, but we – my friends and I – handled it. The ghost crossed over, she’s gone, and that’s it, end of story.”

“Yeah, I know about your freaky friends but they’re not the issue right now. I’ll talk to them later. Right now....right now, I’m dealing with you and you’re telling me you talked the ghost into going away like some fu-freaking – look, lady, I’ve dealt with my fair share of the dead and that ain’t how it happens.”

“Then maybe you’re doing it wrong, Mr. Winchester,” he was told frostily. “You ever think of that?”

“Nope, Can’t say I have,” Dean dismissed the question with a snap in his voice, arrogantly sure of methods taught to him by the best ever since he was old enough to shoot straight and not panic. “What about the Hotel Provençal? That go according to plan, huh? Elevator cables snapped in half? Fire and water and a damn near explosion?” he questioned aggressively. “You get all touchy-feely with that hell-fire on earth?”

“No,” the woman he was beginning to accept as Melinda admitted, more quietly. He saw a shudder course through her frame. “No. That was a dark spirit, not a ghost I could help. My friend ended up banishing it.”

“It was a fu-freakin’ demon, baby. You’re lucky that thing didn’t kill you and drag you down to hell with it!”

“I know,” she whispered. “It was – it was bad.” Her eyes were wide and dark, as if remembering how close she’d come to dying when the dark spirit snapped the elevator cables. “And just call me Melinda, okay? Not ‘baby’. Melinda is fine.”

“So you really are Melinda…” Dean said, slowly coming to believe she was who she said she was. “And you talk to ghosts?”

“To earth-bound spirits, yes. I help them cross into the light,” Melinda repeated, almost wearily. “For the umpteenth time, I'm Melinda Gordon. I don’t ‘salt and burn’ and I don’t hunt. I just try to help, that’s all.”

“Huh.” Dean uttered, shaking his head as if to clear away the last cobwebs of disbelief. “Now I guess I’ve heard everything.”

For the first time since this weird conversation started, Dean got a smile from her. “Mr. Winchester –“

“Just Dean,” Dean said. “I’m not fancy.”

“Okay. Dean, then. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me. But I just try to help, that’s all.”

“ ‘Just’ trying to help can get you killed, babe, er, Melinda.”

“I know it has risks. But everything has risks, doesn’t it? Just living has risks.” For the space of a few heartbeats their eyes met with unexpected honesty, as if they both knew that fact better than most. But Dean wasn’t in the mood to show Melinda Gordon any understanding, let alone admit he had feelings underneath his tough-guy exterior. So he ignored the silent, empathetic moment between them and pushed on with his purpose.

“Maybe,” Dean replied as if forced to concede the point reluctantly. Then, more firmly, he said, “But those kind of risks – they’re my territory, got it? It ain’t amatuer night out there in the dark, ba – er, Melinda. I’m not letting you get yourself killed playing with demons. Not on my watch.”

“And I’m not going to stop trying to help the spirits who come to me,” Melinda Gordon retorted just as firmly. “I have to help them find the light and cross into it.”

Eyes green and dark brown dueled, neither giving an inch, with Dean continuing to look big and intimidating until it was Melinda who finally folded and compromised. “Okay, if I come up against anything dark and scary, I’ll leave it to you. Will that work?”

“It’s a start,” Dean said, not exactly happy with the answer, but it was still a concession to his authority over all things that went bump in the night in this city. He pulled out a slightly creased card from his back pocket and handed it to Melinda. “Call me with the scary shit, okay? I’ll handle it.”

“Okay,” Melinda conceded, but not looking particularly happy about having to give in.

He should go now, Dean, knew that. But he couldn't seem to move, standing still with his fingers curled into a closed fist resting on one of her glass cases. “Anything else?” she questioned his hesitation.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah,” Dean said, sounding as nervous as he felt. He shifted foot to foot and made himself ask the question. “This thing here. How much?”

She looked down at the objects in the case as if trying to guess what had attracted his attention. “The watch?”

“No, uh – the thing – the thing with the naked guy on it,” Dean blurted out.

“The porcelain and ormolu box? That’s Eros seducing Psyche,” Melinda identified, opening the case, retrieving the small box and handing it to Dean. Dean took it like it might be a bomb with an unstable fuse. “It’s French, mid-nineteenth century, maker unknown,” he was told. “It’s a very handsome depiction, isn’t it?”

The delicate box was exquisitely painted, showing Eros as a well-endowed young man, the epitome of Greco-Roman grace, seducing the beautiful and equally naked Psyche. It was fancy as fuck and looked even more delicate when held in his calloused, scarred hands. It felt warm, too. Heavy and, even stranger, it felt _comfortable_ in his hands. And then there was that Eros guy painted on it. God. He knew that face, those eyes. “It, ah, reminds me of, ah, someone, ah, I know,” Dean mumbled, opening the lid to find the box velvet-lined with a mirrored inner lid that showed all too clearly that he looked like a nutjob in a panic for even asking about this fancy box. Closing it, though, he again couldn’t help noticing how much the slender, beauteous Eros resembled the blue-eyed demi-demon he was currently knocking boots with. It was uncanny. Surreal, even. “How much?”

“I can let it go for $1,000.”

“A thousand! Dollars? You gotta be kidding me!” Dean blustered at the astronomical price.

“$900, then. That’s the best I can do,” the antiques shop owner said, and Dean knew she was biting her lips to keep from smiling at his sticker-shocked face. “Even though the maker isn’t identified, it’s still done by a master. It’s a good price.”

“It’s fucking highway robbery,” Dean grumbled, forgetting to censor his language. But damn, he wanted it. More, Dean wanted to see his lover’s face when he gave it to him. Reluctantly, he reached back into his back pocket, this time emerging with a platinum Visa card.

Melinda took the card, took a step towards the cash register, then stopped dead when she read the name on the card. “Anakin S. Walker?” she queried, raising her eyes to meet Dean’s. “Originally from Tatooine, I presume?”

“The card’s good,” he defended, dismayed that the hot chick Melinda was enough of a Star Wars fan to get the connection - and damn, to even name the planet from the movie! He was reluctantly impressed all of the sudden.

“I think if you really are a sheriff you don’t want me to join you in committing retail fraud,” she chided, handing back the card. “You have one with your own name on it, Dean?”

“Christ. If you insist,” he grumbled, pulling out his wallet and more slowly and he painfully handed Melinda a real credit card embossed with his own name.

“So, ah, you really talk to ghosts,” Dean said, following Melinda back to the cash register, his eyes admiring her ass in those tight, tight jeans. He might currently have a lover who looked like Eros reincarnated, but he could still appreciate a fine-looking ass, and Melinda had herself one of those.

“I really do,” Melinda said, sparing him a brief glance that made him hastily put his eyes back on her face instead of her ass. “And you hunt them?”

“I really do,” he agreed cheerily, with an unabashed smile at having been caught staring. “Salt and burn, babe. That’s my gig.”

She looked a trifle frustrated by that answer and insisted, “They’re just lost souls lashing out, for the most part. They can be helped into the light without digging up their bones!”

“Maybe. For the most part. But some of them will try and eat your face off.”

“Luckily, I haven’t encountered many of those,” she said in a dry tone, and Dean got the impression she was giving up on arguing with him. If so, Dean would have agreed it was a wise move on her part.

“Lucky, yeah,” Dean said, watching as Melinda rang up his purchase and began to box it. “Just remember, call me when it gets dangerous.” He watched as she settled the gilt box into a nest of tissue paper. “You maybe got a bow? Wrapping paper?” He nearly blushed at these girly requests leaving his mouth. Christ. Damn. Fuck. He was losing it. He really was.

“I know how to tie a great bow,” Melinda said, as if biting back another smile at his almost-blush. But in a few minutes a large, lush bow of gold ribbon adorned the white gift box, with a few Tiffany blue streamers falling in curls over the box’s sides. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Cool,” Dean said gruffly as if it didn’t matter when it _did_ , looking awkward as Melinda slipped the box into a plastic bag and handed it over to him. She said, “I hope whomever it's for likes it, Dean. It was, mmm, interesting meeting you.”

“Sure thing. Remember, now, scary stuff – me.” He pointed to himself again. “And thanks, Mel. I’ll maybe see you around.”

“Sure. The next meeting of Hunters Anonymous? I’ll be there. I’ll bring cookies.” She gave him a wide grin and a conspiratorial wink.

Dean had to laugh. “And I’ll bring the gasoline. Tell you what, those ugly-ass hunters would fall all over themselves if a hot chick like you showed up. Maybe you could even teach ‘em a few verses of that spirit-Kumbaya you do. I’d just about pay to see _that_ ,” Dean grinned back.

“I might, too,” she laughed outright. “See you around, Sheriff.”


End file.
